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this blog hates donald trump
You Just Sit There?
Garrett Graham x female reader
Summary: Garrett says the dumbest thing to his equestrian girlfriend.
Warnings: none just shit writing
—————————————————————————-
Garrett Graham was sprawled across the couch in the hockey house living room, one arm hanging over the side while half the team argued over an Xbox game.
Dean was yelling that Tucker was button-mashing.
Tucker insisted the game was cheating.
Logan was eating dry cereal straight from the box without looking away from the TV.
Someone had left hockey tape on the coffee table, there were three protein shakers on the kitchen island that no one claimed ownership of, and rock music drifted faintly from an upstairs bedroom.
In other words, a completely normal Saturday at the hockey house.
From the top of the stairs, Garrett's girlfriend came down carrying her barn bag over one shoulder. She already had on tan breeches, a fitted light blue quarter zip, tall riding socks, and her short hair haphazardly thrown into a nub for a bun. The only thing missing were her boots, which she left at the barn in her tack locker.
Dean looked her up and down.
"Damn."
She raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"You horse people really dress like you're about to invade the English colonies."
She rolled her eyes.
"They're called riding clothes."
"They're expensive leggings."
"They're breeches."
"They're leggings with branding."
She laughed despite herself, throwing the nearby hockey tape at Dean’s head in retaliation, missing by miles.
"I'll see you idiots later."
Garrett glanced up from the couch.
"Heading to the barn?"
"Mhm."
"Jumping today?"
"If Lenka behaves."
Dean snorted.
"So... fifty-fifty?"
She smiled.
"Exactly."
Logan leaned over the back of the couch with wide brown eyes similar to a confused puppy.
"Genuine question."
She sighed, pausing at the door with her car keys in hand.
"Here we go."
"Is horseback riding actually hard?"
Before she could answer, Garrett laughed.
"No."
Every head turned toward him.
"I mean... you just sit there, right?"
The room falls silent, the only noise being the paused Xbox game on the TV.
Dean slowly set his controller down.
"Oh..."
Logan looked away and covered his face to hide his laughter from his confused teammates face.
"Tucker," Logan whispered, "he is going to die, do you think I’ll end up Captain?”
"What?" Garrett asked.
His girlfriend stared at him for several long seconds.
Then she smiled.
Not lovingly.
Not sweetly.
Dangerously.
"Oh, Garrett. You sweet summer child."
"What?"
"You really think that's all riding is?"
"Well..." He shrugged again, suddenly feeling as though he just stepped into a trap. "From the outside?"
"Kinda."
She nodded thoughtfully, humming lowly.
"Okay."
"...Okay?" Garrett contemplated what his obituary would say as she stared him down with a slowly growing cat like smile.
"Come with me."
"What?"
"To the barn."
Garrett laughed.
"Why?"
"So you can find out for yourself, silly.”
Dean burst into laughter.
"Oh, you idiot."
Logan reached for his phone.
"I'm canceling my plans."
"Why?"
"So I can witness your downfall."
Tucker leaned over the couch.
"If anyone asks if you've ridden before..."
Garrett looked over.
"...Yeah?"
"Lie."
-———————————————
The drive to the barn consisted almost entirely of Garrett explaining why he was convinced he'd be naturally talented.
"I play hockey."
"You do."
"I have balance."
"Mhm."
"I'm athletic."
"Very."
"I squat, like, four hundred pounds."
"I'm aware. Are you going to get to the point?”
"So obviously… I'll be fine."
She smiled at the road.
"I think you'll survive."
"So you admit, I'll be good."
"I absolutely did not say that."
-————————————————
The hunter-jumper barn sat on several acres just outside town, surrounded by white board fencing and rolling green paddocks where horses grazed lazily beneath the summer sun.
The moment Garrett stepped out of his girlfriends Mazda, the smell hit him.
Fresh hay.
Leather.
Clean shavings.
Horses.
It was an oddly comforting scent, one in which he had never experienced being a self proclaimed city boy.
Several horses and ponies lifted their heads from the grass as they walked toward the main main barn. Swallows darted in and out of the rafters, barn cats lounged on sunny fence posts, and somewhere in the distance someone was laughing as a pony emphatically refused to walk through a puddle with his rider.
"This place is huge."
"I think there’s about 25 horses on property right now."
"...25?"
"Give or take."
Inside, the barn was humming with activity.
A teenager pushed a wheelbarrow piled high with dirty bedding toward the manure pile.
Someone was sweeping the aisle.
Parents leaned against the viewing room windows with coffee cups in hand while watching lessons in the indoor arena. Seemingly unbothered by the constant commotion of kids laughing and horses nickering at one another.
A working student hurried past carrying three bridles over one shoulder and a bucket balanced effortlessly in her other hand.
A pony escaped one cross ties before being intercepted by a twelve-year-old without anyone seeming particularly concerned.
Two girls debated hoof polish with the seriousness of Supreme Court justices.
Garrett blinked.
“This is…”
He searched for the right word.
"...organized chaos."
His girlfriend smiled looking on fondly, seeming to immediately relax into the atmosphere.
"This is actually pretty quiet."
-————————————————
Before they had gone more than twenty feet, a little girl with two missing front teeth marched confidently up to Garrett.
She couldn't have been older than seven. Her paddock boots half zipped and her hair a rats nest.
She planted her hands on her hips.
"You're really tall."
Garrett smiled, unsure what was coming next.
"Thanks."
"Do you play basketball?"
"Hockey."
She nodded once.
"Cool."
Then she looked down.
"Why are you wearing jeans?"
Garrett glanced at himself.
"...Because they're pants?"
She looked horrified.
"You can't ride in jeans."
Before he could respond, another child , this one around ten , appeared beside her.
"Are you Miss Y/N boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
The boy nodded thoughtfully.
"She's really cool.”
"I know."
"Don't make her mad."
Garrett looked toward his girlfriend who was helping one of the working students re-wrap a standing bandage on a fat chestnut pony.
"...Little late for that."
"What'd you do?"
"I said riding looked easy."
Both children physically winced.
"Oof," the girl said.
"Dude," the boy added sympathetically while looking at him with eyes filled with judgment.
Garrett blinked.
"...Did I just get judged by elementary schoolers?"
A teenager walking past overheard.
"Yep."
Without even slowing down she added,
"Good luck."
-———————————————————————
His girlfriend disappeared into her own horse, Lenka's stall.
A moment later the big warmblood emerged beside her.
Conversation throughout the aisle softened almost instinctively.
Lenka was impossible to ignore.
Her dark bay coat gleamed like polished mahogany beneath the barn lights. Every muscle shifted beneath her skin as she walked, elegant and powerful without trying. She carried herself with quiet confidence, ears flicking curiously toward the people around her.
Several of the lesson program kids smiled the moment they saw her.
"Lenka!"
"I love her!"
"She's so pretty today!"
Garrett looked surprised at the children gushing over the large animal blinking lazily in the crossties, her back hoof relaxing as she settles.
"Your horse has fans?"
"She's been here a long time. Plus people always remember your horse and not you.”
As if on cue, a little girl wearing tiny tan breeches and pigtails came skipping over carrying a peppermint.
"Miss. Y/N, can I do her stretches today?"
His girlfriend smiled immediately and he couldn’t help but watch her in her own element.
"Of course. Flat hand please."
Garrett frowned as the child wandered over to the wall of muscle.
"...Her what?"
The little girl carefully offered Lenka the peppermint first.
The mare accepted it with exaggerated delicacy before lowering her enormous head.
"Good girl," the child whispered.
Then, with obvious practice, she gently encouraged Lenka to bend her neck around toward one shoulder.
"One..."
Lenka held the stretch patiently.
"Two..."
Then to the other side.
After that, the little girl encouraged Lenka to reach between her front knees before stretching toward each front hoof, rewarding every stretch with another tiny piece of peppermint.
Garrett watched in fascination.
"...What is she doing?"
"Carrot stretches."
"Except..."
"Peppermint stretches today."
"They help keep her neck and back flexible before work. My best girl is almost 15 and she deserves all the care.”
The little girl looked up proudly.
"Lenka likes doing them."
Lenka immediately huffed in the girl's face hoping to be presented with another peppermint for her efforts.
The child giggled.
"You already had four."
Garrett stared.
"She trusts a seven-year-old enough to put her entire head wherever she's asked."
His girlfriend smiled.
"Lenka knows when she is dealing with the kids."
"Why?"
"Because a lot of these kids have been helping to take care of her while I’ve been focused on school. I sometimes let our trainer use her in beginner kids lessons because she seems to enjoy it.”
"Wait. You’re telling me this horse teaches beginners?"
"When she's not showing."
Garrett looked at the giant warmblood in disbelief, Lenka staring back with a huff.
"The same horse that you said jumps a meter 1.30 fences?"
"The very same."
The little girl finished the final stretch before wrapping both arms around Lenka's face in a hug.
The mare closed her eyes.
Garrett felt something in his chest soften.
"I thought you said she was feisty."
"Oh, she is."
Almost as if on cue, another horse was lead past Lenka’s spot in the crossties.
Lenka flattened both ears dramatically toward the horse while snaking her head with irritation before immediately relaxing again as the little girl scratched her forehead.
"She's opinionated," his girlfriend corrected.
---
The same little girl looked up at Garrett with complete seriousness.
"Are you riding Lenka?"
"Apparently."
She considered this, pushing her lips together and narrowing her eyes up at him.
"For your first lesson?"
"Yeah."
She nodded solemnly.
"Don't bounce."
Garrett frowned. That didn’t sound ominous or anything.
"...Thanks?"
She grinned and skipped away before explaining further. Clearly done with the conversation in favor of her own spotted gray pony.
His girlfriend bit her lip, turning away to hide her smile.
"Oh..."
"What?"
"You'll understand later."
Another child yelled from farther down the aisle,
"Don't pull on her mouth!"
"And keep your heels down!" someone else added.
A working student carrying a stack of saddle pads laughed.
"They've adopted you."
Garrett looked around at the half-dozen children openly watching him like a science experiment. Patiently waiting to watch him lose all of his dignity in the ring. He would actually prefer to get slammed into the boards at a game than be judged by a group of barn rats.
"They're feral….."
His girlfriend grinned, leaning in and giving him a slow kiss on the lips before settling back to look at his face.
"Completely."
2006 2026
Me at 8 years old 🤝 Me at 28 years old
Aliens abducting a Paleolithic horse 🐴✨🛸
Uni.
HEY LADIES … … … … … … … DID YOU KNOW UHHHHHHHHH
quick reminder that you're actually not obliged to feel any empathy for someone who would have described your death as 'necessary' if the exact same thing had happened to you
. ⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊ ☁︎ DBF!JACK x SW!READER ! ⋆˚࿔ ⋆⁺₊ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' mean!jack, readers literally gets stabbed, typical social worker cases ( child abuse and child replacement by cps ), incorrect medical injuries and hospital policy, profanity ( i am a cave man and say fuck every other word ), exactly one mention of the reader being catholic ( blink and you'll miss it ), ( PICTURES ARE FOR VIBES and or AESTHETICS ONLY, THE READER APPEARANCE NOT DESCRIBED !!! HOWEVER, READER IS DESCRIBED AS FEMALE !!! ) ‧ 🔆 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k
. more jack abbot || inbox ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @honeyluvsw + @cursed-carmine
⤷ ✧ . · * . · . CODE BLUE ( blue fuckin balls ) ━ 𖤓 ° ⋆ .ೃ࿔ * : ・ summary after getting stabbed during a cps intervention gone violently wrong, a chaos-mouthed social work intern wakes up in a trauma bay with her father’s best friend—dr. jack abbot—covered in her blood and absolutely livid. what follows is a spiral of fury, restraint, and inappropriate undressing that might just cost them both everything
the first thing they tell you when you start at the pitt isn’t about safety protocols, hipaa violations, or where to find the best vending machine snacks ( though, you know its in the er, between curtain four and five—dennis guards it like a troll under a bridge ).
it isn’t about how to fill out your casework logs, or what to say to grieving families, or even how to survive your practicum without burning out.
it’s — don’t let the doctors intimidate you.
you laughed when they said it. laughed harder when you met them ( these supposed intimidating doctors ).
because the truth is? it’s not the doctors who scare you. it’s not the blood or the chaos or the screams that spill out from ambulance bay doors at three am on a full moon.
it’s not the waiting room full of addicts or the bruised kids who flinch when you raise your voice too fast. it’s not even the hallway ghosts—those too-far-gone stares of people who’ve lost everything before you’ve had your morning coffee.
what scares you is silence. powerlessness. the inability to stop a cycle you’ve seen destroy too many lives.
so you don’t do silence. not anymore.
you talk. constantly. bluntly. sometimes inappropriately. ( frequently inappropriately. ) and if people mistake your sarcasm for cynicism, fine. you know what you are. you’re chaos in a clipboard. a disaster with a pen. a public health liability with half a master’s degree and zero sense of self-preservation.
but you get the job done.
you’re an intern—barely. midway through your master’s-slash-phd in clinical social work, still neck-deep in psych theory and practicum hour requirements, and somehow lucky ( or cursed ) enough to land your field placement at pittsburgh’s most chaotic level one trauma center.
the pitt.
it’s not glamorous. it’s not safe. but it’s real. raw and bloody and bursting at the seams with broken people and the systems that failed them.
and for someone like you? someone who lives off adrenaline and injustice? it’s perfect.
you work under kiara alfaro, the senior hospital social worker. she’s your mentor, your boss, and possibly the only reason you haven’t been kicked out yet. ( she’s also got a terrifyingly accurate bullshit detector and once body-checked a surgical resident for calling your trauma patient a junkie. you absolutely adore her. )
your caseload isn’t light. you’re not here for the flu patients or twisted ankles. you’re called for the ugly ones. rape kits. suicide watches. pediatric assaults. domestic violence stabbings. drug-induced psychosis. the patients no one wants to deal with but have to.
you talk them down. talk them through. talk them into staying. into breathing. into signing the discharge forms. into reporting the ones who hurt them. sometimes it works. sometimes it doesn’t.
sometimes you cry in the staff bathroom with the broken lock and the rusted sink. sometimes you rage in kiara's office while she hands you a capri sun and tells you to file your notes before you start swinging. sometimes you look in the mirror and think this is going to kill me.
but you keep showing up. because if you don’t—who will?
you’ve been at the pitt for a few months, operating on a strict intern basis. no medical license. no therapy credentialing. no prestige. just you, your badge, your student email, and the right to observe more trauma in a single day than most people will see in a lifetime.
and—against all odds—they keep letting you back in.
you spend most of your time in the er and critical care floors. they don’t trust you on pediatrics anymore ( after the bite incident—your fault, technically, but also his, for underestimating your reflexes ).
you rotate between psychiatric consults and post-trauma debriefings, occasionally shadowing grief counselors or addiction liaison teams. you’ve made a habit of inserting yourself into rounds you weren’t invited to. no one stops you anymore. probably because you’re too loud to ignore.
you argue with surgeons. you charm nurses. you steal pens from the front desk and hoard graham crackers from the break room like currency.
you sign your emails with “please advise,” but you haven’t taken anyone's advice in your life seriously. you are, by all accounts, a walking headache.
and yet—
and yet—
they keep letting you through the double doors.
most days, your outfit is half business casual, half emotional damage. your id badge hangs off a lanyard you’ve drawn on with sharpie ( someone added a devil horn doodle over your face—probably frank ). your shoes are scuffed. your hair's a mess. there’s a dried coffee stain on your clipboard that you think looks like a rorschach blot.
you’re everything a trauma hospital should’ve rejected.
but you’re also damn good at your job.
you don’t flinch. don’t shy away. don’t sugarcoat. you’ve got a mouth on you, sure—but it’s the same mouth that gets seventeen-year-old gang members to open up. the same mouth that gets battered women to sign police reports. the same mouth that gets under jack abbot’s skin so bad he once nearly walked into traffic trying to get away from you.
jack abbot is not your father.
that’s the first—and maybe the only—reason you get away with half the shit you say to him.
he doesn’t ground you. doesn’t bark orders. doesn’t tell you to cover up or smile more or stop swearing like a drunken sailor with unresolved childhood trauma.
( okay. he does tell you to stop swearing. a lot. like he’s in charge of your moral compass or some shit. like you didn’t come out of the womb swinging with a mouth full of curses and contempt. )
but he’s not your father. he’s your father’s best friend.
they met in the army. jack was the cocky field medic with a death wish and a chip on his shoulder; your dad was the steady one, the strategic one, the kind of man who could take down a room full of enemies without breaking a sweat. they weren’t supposed to like each other.
and yet—like most war-forged friendships—they bonded over shared trauma, near-death experiences, and enough black-market whiskey to kill a horse. your father saved jack’s life once, in some no-name desert hellhole you were never allowed to ask about. jack saved his in return, more than once.
they don’t talk about it much. but it’s there—in the way your father’s voice softens when jack’s name comes up. in the old photos buried in storage boxes, the kind you only found once by accident. two men. dirt-streaked. exhausted. bleeding at the edges and smiling.
so when your dad took his final deployment—a favor for an old war buddy, some quiet, off-the-books assignment you weren’t allowed to ask questions about—he came to jack.
told him you’d been placed at the pitt. told him you were a handful. told him—stern-faced, serious as death—“watch over her, please, jackie. she’s all i’ve got.”
and jack, in all his brooding, overworked, emotionally constipated glory? he said yes. of course he did. because he owed your father a life.
even if that life meant you.
from the start, it was a fucking disaster. you, with your sharp mouth and unapologetic stare. him, with his clinical detachment and simmering judgment.
he made it very clear that he didn’t want you there. that interns were a liability. that the er wasn’t a place for untrained, undisciplined brats with hero complexes.
“this isn’t your playground,” he snapped once, mid-code. “then stop acting like the fun police,” you shot back.
you’ve been circling each other like wolves ever since.
he acts like you’re a walking hr violation. like you’re too loud. too reckless. too much. he barks at you to “wash your damn mouth” and threatens to report you to kiara every other shift.
and yet he always asks kiara for a consults because he knows your her shadow. always steps between you and the messier patients. always lingers a little longer than he needs to.
you know what he thinks of you.
at least—you think you do.
you see the way he clenches his jaw when you open your mouth. the way his hands fist at his sides when you make another wildly inappropriate joke during patient intake.
the way he stares at the wall like it personally offended him whenever you show up in ripped jeans and combat boots, badge swinging, lip gloss smeared.
he hates you.
that’s fine.
you don’t like him much either.
except for the part where he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. t’s not a crush. ( don’t be gross. ). its not like you’re in love with jack abbot.
it’s just—
he’s tall. and broad. and built like every repressed catholic fantasy you’ve ever denied having. he’s got those storm-grey curls, the ones that stay tucked behind his ears but go wild when he’s elbow-deep in a trauma bay. the ones you want to tug.
he’s got that scowl. the kind that could ruin someone’s week from across the nurses’ station. the kind that makes your knees go loose and your spine straighten like a challenge.
and his voice—low, gritted, tight with restraint when he says things like “for christ’s sake, show some professionalism.” or “someone outta put you in your fucking place.”
you joke. of course you joke. it’s how you cope. how you flirt. how you keep from actually climbing into his lap during lunch breaks and asking what it would take for him to shut you up with his mouth.
you flirt to cover the fact that your thighs press together every time he growls your name. you make innuendos like it’s a sport, smirk when he turns red with fury—or embarrassment. you push, and push, and push—because that’s the only way to keep the heat from swallowing you whole.
maybe it’s the age difference. the authority. the forbidden-ness of it all. maybe it’s the fact that jack would never touch you. that he’d rather chew off his own hand than admit he wants you back.
or maybe it’s just that you’ve never wanted anyone the way you want him.
and that is deeply humiliating.
but hey.
if he’s going to hate you anyway, you might as well make him sweat.
the er waiting room always hums.
not a pleasant hum. not an organized one. it’s the kind that drills into the softest part of your brain—the pitchy murmur of the too-sick, the too-loud, the too-gone. crying babies. phones ringing. someone yelling at the front desk because triage didn’t call them back fast enough. the buzz of ancient fluorescent lighting overhead, threatening to go out with a cough.
the air smells like bleach and blood and too many lives falling apart at once. it always does.
you’ve gotten used to it. or you’ve told yourself that, anyway.
you’re standing just outside the nurse’s station with kiara, clipboard in hand, trying to keep your voice steady while a man across from you—mid-forties, greasy flannel, bad tattoos—grips the arm of a child hard enough to leave bruises. you clock it instantly. not just the way he holds the kid, but the way he looks at you.
he’s sizing you up. like you’re a problem he could fix with one punch. and you smile at him like you’d throw the first one.
the kid’s maybe five. thin. wide-eyed. a little too quiet.
she’s scurried away to sit in one of the plastic waiting room chairs with a worn stuffed elephant in her lap, thumb in her mouth, skin patchy with what looks like old healing burns beneath her sweater sleeves.
you’d seen the marks during intake—saw the nurse’s note, the mandatory flag. you didn’t have to see more. you knew the minute the man walked in and said, “my niece had an accident,” with a voice that carried too much ownership, that this wasn’t going to end clean.
“mr. marsh,” kiara says, voice smooth as steel. “we’ve reviewed the preliminary findings and spoken with emergency services. given the nature of your niece’s injuries and the statements made by responding personnel, we’re initiating a cps report and placing her in temporary protective custody.”
“the fuck you are.” there it is. the snap. like a bone cracking beneath too much pressure.
you take a step closer, clipboard still clutched to your chest. your voice doesn’t waver. “sir, i am going to need you to remain calm—”
“that’s my family,” he growls, stepping toward the girl. “you don’t get to take her. her mom’s strung out in allegheny county lockup, and i’m the only one left who gives a damn.”
“then maybe,” you say, tone bone-dry, “you shouldn’t have yanked on her arm like it was a doorknob.” kiara shoots you a look. not sharp, just tired. like she doesn’t have the energy to scold you again.
the man’s face reddens. his hand balls into a fist. the girl doesn’t move. she’s frozen, eyes wide, thumb still in her mouth. you crouch slowly, give her a soft smile.
“hey, sweetheart. why don’t you come with me for a minute, okay? we’ve got crayons and popsicles in the back. you ever had a grape one?” she nods—barely. you offer your hand.
“c’mon. i promise we’ll keep mr. elephant safe.” she places her tiny fingers in yours like they weigh the world. you stand. kiara gestures toward nina, another social worker lingering at the edge of the chaos. she whisks the girl away down the corridor, away from the tension. the man’s gaze follows, sharp as a razor.
“you fucking bitch,” he spits, suddenly surging forward. you move to intercept without thinking. kiara’s already trying and failing at stepping in between.
you’ve dealt with aggression before. screaming. threats. broken phones. but there’s something in this man’s eyes—something off.
his face twitches. his fingers twitch. and you realize, far too late, he’s not reaching for the girl. “sir, back up,” kiara warns, hand outstretched, looking around for security. “you’re making this worse than it has to be.”
“you don’t know what worse looks like.” he’s practically vibrating. something clicks in your mind. something primal.
you’ve seen that look before—in addicts cornered during psych evals, in violent exes slamming their fists against locked doors, in men who think the world owes them something and that women are the debt collectors.
your gut twists.
and then you see it, a flicker of silver beneath the hem of his coat. a quick glint. the blade of a pocketknife. your clipboard hits the ground before you realize you dropped it. “hey!” you bark, voice suddenly sharp, not social-worker-soft, not trauma-informed-friendly, just loud. “put it the fuck down—”
and that’s when he lunges. "security!"
you know what no one tells you about being stabbed?
it’s hot.
not sharp. not icy. not cinematic.
just heat. blinding, white-hot, ripping through your side like a flare gun fired point-blank into soft tissue. your nerve endings go haywire, like they can’t agree whether to scream or shut down entirely. your ribs jar against the blow, and for a horrifying half-second, you think maybe the blade's still inside you.
but then—
oh.
no, he pulled it out.
that’s why there’s so much blood.
you stumble backward, hand pressed hard against your ribs, your palm already soaked in wet warmth. it pulses through your fingers like a second heartbeat, fast and panicked and very, very wrong.
you don’t fall gracefully.
you drop like a shot deer—clumsy, knees sideways, landing half on your elbow and half on someone’s crumpled hoodie on the floor. the pain makes you howl. a strangled, animal sound that bursts from your chest unfiltered.
“what the fu—!”
your vision swims. a dark haze edges the corners of your eyes like burnt film. somewhere to your left, kiara is screaming. somewhere to your right, the guy who stabbed you is being tackled by two guards and a passing cna with murder in his eyes.
and you are bleeding out on the floor of a hospital you technically don’t even work at, clutching your side with a hand that won’t stop shaking.
“don’t move—don’t—fuck, nina, get help! get trauma down here—now!” that’s kiara’s voice. commanding. terrified. you’d try to comfort her, if you weren’t so goddamn angry.
“you gotta be some kind of stupid to stab a woman in a hospital?! are you fucking kidding me—!” your voice cracks as it rises, climbing toward hysteria.
you’re not crying. you’re just sweating aggressively out of your eyes, okay? your lungs fight to inflate. you suck in a breath and get half of it before the wound tugs wrong and you double over with a wet groan. you bite it back. barely.
a nurse skids into view, dropping to their knees beside you. young, new and fucking terrified. “okay, okay, okay—you’re okay, we’re gonna—we’re gonna apply pressure—”
“don’t you fucking touch me!” you snarl through gritted teeth. they blink at you, visibly rattled. but nevertheless, the pressure they apply is not gentle.
“jesus fuck—!” you nearly slap them. not on purpose. just a reflex. you reach down, trying to press your own hand harder over theirs, but everything is slippery. the blood just keeps coming. you can feel it soaking through layers—shirt, bra, coat, the fucking bandaid kiara made you slap over your tattoo this morning.
“this is not how i die,” you whisper, wild-eyed. “i am not dying in a polyester blazer with a hot topic pin on it—” the nurse stares at you. “you’re not dying.”
“tell that to my entire blood volume on the ground—!”
another wave of pain rolls through you. it crests in your throat, pushes a sob halfway up your windpipe before you grit it down again. you taste copper. maybe from your split lip, maybe from sheer, molten rage.
kiara’s crouched over you now, speaking fast into a radio clipped to her hip and then yelling at the nurse on the other side of the partition at the front desk. “go get a doctor! and a gurney! now!”
you clutch at her sleeve, your other hand still pinned over your gushing side. “i’m gonna throw up,” you croak.
“don’t you dare,” she says, gripping your wrist. “i mean it,” you say, “right in your lap, kiara—dead center—”
the lights above you seem to buzz louder now. or maybe that’s your ears. or your heart. or your ego leaving your body after the most undignified five minutes of your professional life.
you’re lying in the middle of the er waiting room. you’re covered in your own blood. you’ve officially scared a nurse into silence. and the worst part?
you still haven’t gotten that goddamn cps paperwork filed.
you try to sit up.
that was a big mistake. the pain grabs you by the spine and yanks. your breath catches—snaps, really—and for one awful second, everything goes white. like full-screen, clinical-grade whiteout.
“no—nope, i'm gonna stay down—here . . .”
someone’s hands on your shoulders now. more nurses. more shouting. “where’s the gurney? i called for a gurney—”
you feel the floor shift under your back as someone slides a board beneath you. the cold plastic against your spine makes you shudder. you’re dimly aware of a woman trying to start an iv in your left arm while someone else pinches the skin near your jaw to keep you conscious.
“stay with us, sweetheart—what’s your name?”
“don’t call me sweetheart. i will end your whole bloodline.”
“vitals dropping—systolic’s barely hanging on—”
“i swear to god if you cut this top i’m gonna—fuck—fuck!”
and then—just when you’re about to black out from blood loss, indignation, and the unbearable itch of polyester against your sweat-slicked neck—you hear it.
the er double doors slam open with force. someone stomps in. heavy boots. heavy breath. a voice like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. “move.” and the second you hear it, every cell in your body screams oh no.
because that’s jack.
and you are so fucked.
he doesn’t run. jack doesn’t need to run. he moves like a force of nature—like a landslide with a license to practice medicine and no goddamn patience left. his eyes scan the chaos.
security wrestling with the man who stabbed you. blood smeared on the floor like some fucked-up jackson pollock. kiara kneeling over you, hand pressed to your side.
and then—he sees you.
you’re half-upright on the gurney now, barely. propped on one elbow, trying to stop the nurses from cutting your blazer with a pair of trauma shears. your delirious at this point. “don’t—don’t—i like this outfit, i swear to god i’ll sue someone—”
“she’s in shock,” someone murmurs beside him. “she lost a lot of blood—she needs—”
"i'm not in shock—jack, tell them i'm being fucking serious—ow, ow—!"
“out of my way.” he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to because in an instant, they scatter. and then he’s at your side.
“jesus christ,” he growls, and his hands are already on you—gripping your jaw, tipping your face toward his. checking your pupils. your color. “what the fuck happened?”
you blink up at him. you’re smiling. why are you smiling? your teeth are pink. you can taste your own blood on you tongue. “hi, jackie,” you slur. “you ever see your life flash before your eyes and it’s just thirty seconds of you eating string cheese in a hospital bathroom?”
his nostrils flare. his jaw clicks. his hands tighten just slightly where they hold your face. “what part of ‘stay out of red-level interventions’ did you not fucking understand?”
“what part of ‘this kid was getting beat to hell’ did you miss—ow—fuck, jack—” he’s already assessing the wound. pulling back the soaked fabric. his fingers are too skilled. too gentle. it makes you dizzy in a different way.
“knife wound. lower right quadrant. no visible organ evisceration. bleeding’s heavy but localized." one of the nurses that scattered, called out towards jack. he nod and then yells, "get trauma five ready. now!”
the nurses move like they’ve been struck. someone shoves open the trauma bay doors. the gurney wheels groan. “we were doing our job,” kiara cuts in, still breathless, still covered in your blood. almost as if she knows jack is about to rip her a new one.
jack’s head snaps toward her. his voice drops. “your job was to keep her out of this kind of risk. not to throw her into a cps confrontation without a trained intervention officer or security present.”
“we didn’t know he had a knife.”
“then maybe next time you vet the violent assholes before they get within stabbing distance! she's my responsibility, kiara! 'er dad's my best friend!”
oof.
your heart skips at that one.
kiara looks like she’s been slapped. but Jack’s not done. “you were supposed to keep her out of danger.” his voice breaks slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice.
but you do.
the gurney jerks forward. “you’re gonna be fine,” jack mutters, voice low, tight, as he walks beside you. “you hear me?”
“yeah, but . . . like. hot fine or regular fine? because i feel like i’m leaking in ways that’ll mess up my whole aesthetic—”
“shut up.”
“you’re so mean to me.”
“you got stabbed, you little brat.”
“yeah, but like . . . for justice.”
he looks like he wants to strangle you. or kiss you. or both.
they wheel you through the trauma bay doors. he’s still there. still hovering. still furious. and somewhere, under the pain and the blood and the rising nausea—
you feel safe. which is the most dangerous thing of all. because you did just get fucking stabbed.
the gurney squeals around the corner on uneven wheels, one of them stuck from some ancient collision with a supply cart two years ago. you feel it drag beneath you every few feet, the jolt punching through your spine like a hammer to bone.
you’re vaguely aware of the nurse—jess? jenny?—shouting something about trauma bay five. you think shen is pushing your legs. you think you told him once you liked his cargo boots. maybe you hallucinated that.
you can’t tell.
everything’s red. sticky. pulsing. all too bright.
jack’s hands are still on you. one pressed hard to your side, keeping the pressure constant. the other gripping the metal railing of the gurney like he wants to rip it off. he’s leaning over you, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his molars grinding.
“where the fuck is security?!” his voice ricochets off the corridor walls. “i want them in the trauma bay—now!” shen flinches.
“already called. they're on their way—”
“they should’ve been there before she was stabbed!”
“dr. abbot—”
the rage coming off jack is nuclear.
you’re still bleeding. not as fast as before, but enough that your skin’s gone cold. your lips feel weird. you want to say something sarcastic but it’s like your brain’s swimming through molasses.
jack’s hand—broad, steady, coated in your blood—grips your wrist suddenly, anchoring you to the gurney frame as they jerk you through the trauma bay doors. you know he's looking for a pulse because your eyes have begun to flutter.
“you with me?” he asks, voice rougher now. lower. a crack under all that rage. “don’t you dare close your eyes.”
“s’just… a little nap,” you mumble. “ten minutes, jackie…”
“no. no naps. open your fucking eyes.”
they stop moving. the gurney locks in. the light above you flares on—white, sterile, cruel. but it doesn't matter because you are no longer awake. "fuck!" jack curses when he looks down and immediately notices your eyes have closed and not reopened.
a flurry of movement. gloves. gauze. someone ( shen ) pulls out trauma scissors. jack slaps their hand away. “touch that top and she’ll gut you when she wakes up.”
“it's covered in blood—” shen tries to argue.
“so is everything else in this room. you want to cut something? cut the fuckin' attitude.” he doesn’t stop moving. one hand is pressing gauze to your side, the other already reaching for the overhead tray before the nurse can even finish unwrapping the sterile kit. his voice is tight, rapid, mechanical.
“bp?”
“dropping.”
“push one liter lr wide open, then start the second. two large-bore ivs. i need four-o suture, lidocaine, betadine—now.”
“we called trauma surgery—”
“i've got it! it's not deep enough for surgery, we just gotta stop the bleeding.”
and then the door opens again. security arrives. two of them. maybe three. doesn’t matter. he doesn’t glance up. doesn’t stop.
he’s already cutting away the soaked fabric with steady ( already going against what you wanted and what he told shen not to do ), clinical hands, fingers stained deep rust-red, jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel. blood sticks to his wrists, smears the dark of his black scrub top.
he leans over your side, peering into the wound, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. the pads of his fingers ghost across your skin—professional, careful, but desperate.
and then, jack rounds on them like a storm.
he looks insane. still gloved—blood dripping. still holding your wrist like a lifeline. “you.” his voice is a snarl now. “how the fuck did a man with a weapon get past you?”
he doesn’t yell it at anyone specific. or maybe he does. maybe it’s aimed at security, still standing by the door like they’re not five seconds away from being flayed alive.
they hesitate.
“no, really—how? was he invisible? did the metal detector take the night off? did someone forget to give a single fuck about basic safety protocol?”
“he wasn’t flagged—he didn’t show signs of escalation—”
“you let him sit ten feet from an unaccompanied minor and a staff intern—are you fucking kidding me?!”
still no pause. no hitch in motion. he injects lidocaine near the wound with terrifying precision. his voice lowers ( just a hair ) when he talks to shen. “local in. she’s stable enough for sutures. five centimeters, shallow, anterior rib margin—start prepping now.”
a nurse scrubs your side. you wince even in unconsciousness.
“he was apprehended—"
“after—she was bleeding. on the floor.”
“dr. abbot—” kiara’s voice behind him is calm, firm, a professional’s warning, dares to speak. “you’re not being rational.”
he spins on her.
“rational?” he echoes, without looking at her. “she’s twenty-four. she’s a grad student. she was assigned to work under you. and now i’m the one threading her skin back together while you stand there acting like this is just another thursday.”
he glares at her. it’s enough to cut through steel. “you want to talk rational? let’s start with what the fuck went wrong on your watch.”
kiara flinches. but says nothing. he goes back to you. “vitals holding,” a nurse says. “we’re okay.”
“she is not fucking okay,” jack mutters. “she’s just not dead yet.”
you blink up at him. your voice is weak. but you can’t help it. “you always this mean to girls who bleed on you?” his eyes flick down. his jaw tightens. but his heart races at the fact that you have come back to consciousness.
“you’re not special.”
“liar.”
his hands don’t tremble. not even a little. but his breathing’s off. you know it is. “you need to stop talking,” he says flatly.
“you need to stop flirting,” a nurse mutters.
“i’m dying, let me have this.”
“you are not dying,” jack grits out. “and you are making this infinitely worse.”
“you’re hot when you’re mad.”
“i’m always mad.”
“yeah, but now you’re mad and wrist-deep in my side, which is kind of hot—ow ow ow okay, okay—” he tightens the last suture knot with a jerk. you yelp. shen snorts in the corner and coughs to cover it.
the room is quieter now. not silent—never in the trauma bay. but steadier. the bleeding’s under control. the adrenaline’s burning off. and jack is still covered in your blood.
“start her on a gram of cefazolin, monitor hourly. no oral intake for the next four. if she tries to leave, fuckin' sedate her. and someone—” he turns to security, eyes like frozen steel. “—better have gotten that fucking asshole outta my waiting room."
he finally stops moving.
finally pulls his gloves off—snap, snap—and tosses them into the bin. then the trauma bay doors shut with a hiss of finality as the nurses and security and shen leave the trauma room.
the moment they do, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. not from the ac. not from the sterile tile or the sweat drying on your skin.
from jack.
he stands just inside the door, his chest heaving like he sprinted through a war zone—like he’s still in one. his jaw is clenched. his eyes are locked on you.
and you, sprawled across the gurney, still half in your ruined clothes and half in denial, look up at him with a dazed little frown. “Your mad at me?” your voice is quiet and severely lacking all its bravado. he doesn’t answer.
he just strides toward the sink, scrubs his hands again with rough, punishing motions, blood still drying along his forearms. you watch the water swirl red into the drain.
he doesn't speak until his hands are clean. he doesn’t look at you until the blood is off. and even then, it’s not a soft look. “you’re a fucking idiot.”
you blink at him. "because it was my fucking fault i got stabbed."
“don’t start,” he bites, already reaching for the medical wipes and gauze. “you don’t get have an attitude right now.”
“i got stabbed. pretty sure that buys me a little attitude.”
“pretty sure you’re not in charge of anything right now.” he steps to your side, eyes flicking over the damage. your shirt’s cut down the middle, soaked through with dried and tacky blood. your skin is sticky, crusted red in patches, with fresh bruises blooming violet along your ribs.
his lips press into a furious line as he grips the edge of your shirt. “sit up.”
“why?”
“so i can get this off you and clean you up.”
“y’know, if you wanted me naked that badly, you could’ve just asked—”
“sit. the fuck. up.”
you do. slowly. with a hiss and a wince and a muttered insult about men with god complexes. he peels the shirt off of you with surgical precision, muttering something under his breath the whole time.
“stupid. reckless. could’ve punctured a lung. could’ve hit the liver. bleeding like a goddamn faucet and still making fucking jokes—”
you’re stripped down to your bra now. not a cute one. one of the functional, beige, i didn’t think i’d be impaled today variety. blood has soaked halfway down it.
he sees it. he doesn’t react. just throws the shirt aside and grabs a saline wipe. “this’ll sting.”
“oh, now you’re warning me?” the cold hits your ribs and you flinch so hard your elbow nearly clocks him in the chin. he doesn’t back away. he doesn’t soften. his hand goes to your shoulder, presses you down, holds you still.
“do you have any idea what you just did?” his voice is low now. dangerous. “what kind of risk you took?” you look at him. smirk twitching. weak, but still there.
“i saved a kid.”
“you could’ve died.”
“you think i don’t know that?”
“then what the fuck were you thinking?!”
his voice cracks on that last word. not loud. but broken. you go quiet.
his hand on your shoulder trembles once—just once—before tightening again. the saline stings as he wipes more of the blood from your stomach, your ribs, your hip. he moves like he’s trying not to hurt you. but everything about him is rigid.
he tosses the gauze into the bin. grabs the gown from the side tray.
“arms up.”
“bossy.”
“up.”
you raise them.
he slips the gown over your head like he’s furious at the fabric. it’s thin. starched. smells like bleach and regret. yanks the ties into place. tugs the hem down over your thighs with clinical detachment and short, angry motions—like the fabric personally insulted him. you flinch at the tug.
you think that’s it.
you think he’s done.
you think you’re safe.
you are not safe.
“we need to get that bra off.” his voice is flat, cold. utterly clinical. you blink. slowly. “it’s fine,” you lie. “i’ll take care of it later.”
“it’s soaked in blood.”
“a little vintage gore never hurt anybody.”
“it’s sticking to the skin near your wound. if it dries like that, i’ll have to cut it off and re-irrigate. you won’t like that.”
“you could’ve just said you wanted to see me topless.”
he stares at you like he wants to put you back in shock on purpose.
“i'm going to unhook it,” he says, already stepping around the gurney. “don’t make this weird.”
“too late.”
he exhales sharply—through his nose, through gritted teeth—and moves behind you. the room is quiet now. just the soft shuffle of his boots, the faint beeping of the vitals monitor, the rustle of your hospital gown as he pulls it back from your shoulders—just enough to reach the clasp.
your breath hitches. not from pain. from how goddamn careful he is. his fingers graze the curve of your spine—knuckles rough, fingertips clean, not gloved anymore but still stained faintly with your blood.
“tilt forward a little.”
you do.
you feel the graze of his knuckle against your ribs.
your skin lights up under every inch he touches. a wildfire. a problem. “i’m only doing this so it doesn’t stick,” he mutters, as if reading your goddamn mind. “sure,” you whisper, lips dry. “that’s what they all say.”
he doesn’t answer.
he doesn’t scold you for once.
and that? that’s worse.
the clasp clicks open with a soft snap.
he pulls the bra away from your back, one side at a time, fabric peeling slow over the dried blood on your skin. you hiss—part pain, part—well. not pain.
“i’ll throw it out,” he says, folding it into a biohazard bag.
“no ceremony? that thing’s seen more action than my entire dating history.” still no answer. he tugs the gown back up your arms. re-ties it. his fingers brush the nape of your neck. you nearly shiver.
“you’re burning up,” he mutters.
“you’re touching me.”
“you’re delirious.”
“you’re still touching me.”
he pauses. just one breath. just one moment. then, “don’t make this worse than it is.” if you didn't know any better you'd of thought he was begging. you turn your head. “you’re the one undressing me in a trauma bay, jack.”
his jaw tightens. "we’re done here.”
“that’s too bad,” you murmur, “i was starting to like being manhandled.” he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. but when he turns away—you catch it. that twitch of his hand. that flicker of restraint.
that crack.
“you think this is a joke. that bleeding out in my er is some kind of fucking bit.”
“jack—”
“you don’t get it. you don’t.” you stare at him. he’s pacing now. hands on his hips, breathing shallow. “you could’ve died. do you know what that would’ve done to your dad? to me?”
your heart skips. he realizes what he’s said. he closes his eyes. breathes. once. twice. “i’m going to go fill out your chart.”
he turns toward the door.
but not before you whisper, “you were scared.” he stops but he doesn’t turn around. “you were scared for me.”
another pause. “say it, jack.”
silence. then, without turning—“don’t you ever fucking do that again.”
🔖 . @Princesssunderworld @mayabbot @Arigoldsblog @oldmanbunnylover @lovelexi717 @peggyofoz @qtmoonies @nfwmb-gvf @babybatreads @bitteroceanlove @spooky-librarian-ghost @gardeniarose13 @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @anxiousfuckupon @Lumpypoll @Coldmuffinbanditshoe @blueliketheseaa @m14mags @generalstarlightobject @Thedamnqueenofhell @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @Sabi127 @Sammiib444 @painment @namgification @Cherry_cosmos @catmomstyles3 @amindfullofmonsters @moonriseoverkyoto @karavt @beefbaby25 @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @violetswritingg @silas-aeiou @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @valkyreally@hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @gardeniarose13 @oldmanbunnylover @Anglophileforlife @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @pope-codys @spooky-librarian-ghost @breegirlxoxo @xxxkat3xxx @fadeinsol @anxious-fuck-upon @gimme1margarita @katydunn67 @lunyyx @charlietriestoshift @soiiifon @beebeechaos @babybatreads
part two??? maybe??? lmk if you want one lmao
Um yeah
the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd
fandom: top gun
pairing: bob x reader
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you.
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.”
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
“Cooling off.”
END.
frolicking with mama :)
i really need johnny with a bird who’s never been eaten out before because I know that man is hungry.
johnny and you have been inseparable since the cradle. a friendship older than his siblings children. which means the both of you are entirely transparent with each other- the skin and bones of your stories is consumed without question. that includes, appropriate or not, sexual encounters.
when you tell him, he’s just shy of appalled. given, you hadn’t been with too many men, but enough that it’s strange none of them have even offered to get their mouth between your legs. especially with how good he knows they’d feel, on his-their shoulders. how sweet you probably taste. how hot it would be to watch you- fuck.
“ah will.”
you throw a confused look over your shoulder as you pour the both of you another cup of tea.
“you’ll what?”
“eat ye out.”
you feel the lavender go up your nose and steam your sinus until it short circuits. you miscalculate where the stove is, and set the pot down with a loud clank. wincing, you look back up at him, searching the blue of his eyes for any sign of humor.
when you come up empty handed you realize he’s entirely serious.
“johnny- i don’t think-“
“donae play coy nae, ah wanna show ye whatcha been missin’.”
your lips flatten into a harsh line. you run your tongue on the backs of your teeth, trying to collect any courage you’ve got in you to respond. friends don’t eat each other out…right?
but he’s doing it to help you. to…show you what you’ve been missing. a favor. a kindness between you and the strong, wide shoulders you’ve cried on.
your mouth is sticky when you respond. “okay.”
his grin is wolfish. “aye, tha’s a girl.”
he guides you to the couch, with enough gentleness to make you flush. kneels between your legs as you rest up against the pillows he set behind the arch of your back. slides your pants off with one hand, the other on your waist, thumb swiping in a soothing rhythm below your belly button.
you feel like syrup, leaning your head back and missing the way he licks his lips when he looks at your damp panties.
“relax, hen. yer gonna enjoy tis, promise.”
he does not eat you out with the same softness he prepped you with. slides your panties to the side and immediately shoves his nose between your mounds, and you gasp, spine arching away from the pillows instinctively. he laughs, but it’s muffled by your soaked lips.
explores every fold until you don’t know if you’re soaked by your own arousal, or his spit. but doesn’t matter, because soon he focuses on your clit, and your hands come to crowd his hair. tugging at his mohawk, rolling your hips forward into his face.
“w-wait…hah..”
he doesn’t, tongue ruthless against you. the sensitivity burns- new sensations flaring up from your core to your belly, legs beginning to shake. he feels it, and hooks them around his shoulders.
he’s messy, too. the sounds echoing off your cunt and against his nose are obscene, but he doesn’t quit it until you’re riding his face and to lost in your bliss to still operate under your usual shyness.
you silently wonder what he’s getting out of this. you’ve been friends forever, and although sometimes your banter feels flirtatiously charged, neither have ever acted on it. something you acknowledge but never name. water it and then shove it back in the closet you played dress up in as kids.
and now he’s eating you out. for fun.
you want to ask him, but you only get as far as, “J-Johnny…Johnny fuck- fff…w-why?”
you moan when he separates from your swollen cunt, only to be yanked from your stupor when he pulls you closer to his mouth by your hips.
“because,” again, eyes uncharacteristically serious, “ah’ve been tryin’ fer years.”
dives back in, and adds his two fingers deep into your hole as he sucks on your clit. at that, you cum over his face, limbs crowding his head with the incoherent curses your orgasms rips out of you.
when he pulls back away from you, he gives your cunt a harsh pat, and pulls your mouth apart with his thumb, before placing his fingers on your tongue.
“taste tha’?” his stare is hungry, like he didn’t swallow everything you had, “tha’s what the bastart’s you’ve been wastin’ yerself on have’bin missin’.”
you nod, like you’ve been taught a lesson. he pulls his fingers away, stands and stretches. when he looks back at you again, whatever beast possessed him is gone, and he smiles at you smugly.
“fun, yeah?”
you lean your head back, spent, “fuck off.”
“aw, c’mon nae, no tank yew? shame on ye, using me like tat.”
you throw your hands in the air. “you offered!”
he laughs, and the air is normal. you almost forget you’re naked. almost forget you came over his face.
almost miss how he pockets your panties before grabbing the cups of tea from the kitchen.
You Know Where You Are 1/3
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship
The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist
Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day started before he even made it to PTMC. He was supposed to go to Pittfest to support his girlfriend's band with Jake, but decided to flake and give his ticket to Jake's girlfriend. You are less than thrilled with his lack of communication. Word Count: 965 Content Warning: Arguing; Reader is in her 30's A/N: This will be a three-parter.
“Why is an alarm going off?” You grumbled into Robby’s warm chest as the jingle from his phone repeated itself. Robby groaned as he reached over to the nightstand to turn it off. He was silent for a few beats, his other hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Mikey?”
“I’m goin’ in today.” He mumbled into the crown of your head.
“You’re what?” Sitting up in a hurry, you pushed yourself off him, but kept your eyes pinpointed on his. Michael was looking anywhere else in the room but at you. “No. No, Mike! You said you weren’t going to do this.”
“I know.” He responded gently, his eyes breaking from yours.
“You know.” Scoffing, you started to get off the bed, but was stopped by his hand gently grabbing your thigh, squeezing it in a way that told you he did not want this to get blown into an argument. Not today. “What about Jake? You can’t just ditch him.”
“Giving him my pass for his girlfriend. They’ll have a blast and apparently she’s a huge fan of you guys.” He tried to soften the blow. All it did was build the irritation that was growing inside of you.
“And me?” Your question hung in the air.
“I’m sorry.”
“Absolutely not.” Gently prying his hand off your leg, you stood and threw on some random clothes he had in the second drawer that housed various t-shirts, jeans and leggings that you’d left over time. “Genuinely don’t know what I was expecting.” You muttered under your breath as you pulled a t-shirt over your head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He had the nerve to sound indignant.
“It means that I am a very reasonable person who rolls with the punches when it comes to you, but god forbid something on my end -pre planned well in advance, mind you- is important to me and it gets thrown by the wayside.”
“Today is-” You held up your hand to stop him.
“-I know what today is.” Your voice took on a somber tone. “And I am so incredibly sorry that you have to carry this with you, Mike. I am. I love you and I support you wholeheartedly, but you obviously knew you were going to do this well before this morning and you chose not to tell me. A heads up is all that I’m asking for here.”
“Had I known missing this set was going to be a huge deal-”
“It’s not about the set!” Your voice rose. “I don’t care about the set, Mike! My life is set after set. I cared about spending time with you and Jake. The set is an hour out of my day. Both of us are stupidly busy people with demanding careers who don’t get to see a whole lot of each other outside of some quick takeout and going to bed -if we’re even in the same state!” It wasn’t meant to be a jab, but Robby felt it all the same.
“You’ve never had a problem with me having to cancel for work.” His voice was starting to get an irritated tone to it, one that you knew he knew he was wrong, but was doubling down.
“That’s not what this is!” You snapped, “I’m not mad because you get called in to work, Mike! You did this on purpose. They didn’t call you in, you are choosing to go in on a day that you already arranged to have off for no other reason than you won’t communicate!” He winced -you don’t communicate was repeated like a broken record through just about every failed relationship he had. “I don’t understand how you don’t see why I’m frustrated with this and, quite frankly, it’s pissing me off even more than I was to begin with because I can’t tell if you know what you’re doing or if this is just a defensive reflex!”
Grabbing your phone off the nightstand on your side, you sighed when you saw how early it actually was. Deciding that removing yourself from Mike’s townhouse was the best option so you could cool off without figuratively ripping his head from his body, you grabbed your purse off his dresser.
“Where are you going?” Mike stood from the bed, pajama pants hanging low in his hips. There was clear panic in his eyes, but he couldn’t navigate himself out of the hole he had dug himself.
“Back to my place.” You didn’t bother to untie your sneakers as you shoved your feet into them, pulling roughly until they popped on.
“Come on,” He said your name softly, “-please just get back into bed-”
“Why?” You snapped, “You’re getting ready for work and I don’t have a reason to be here right now.” Mike winced, then inhaled deeply before nodding -not to agree with you, but to process the words that you just said to him.
“You don’t need a reason to be here.” He was nearly begging. You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from going off the deep end.
“Fine, I don’t want to be here.” You ground out. And truthfully, you didn’t. Anger was a rarity coming from you -life happens- but this wasn’t “life happens”. This was “Robby happens” and when Robby happens...you shook your head.
“You coming back here tonight?” He knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway.
“You know, Mike…” You shrugged, exasperated, arms swinging out from your sides, “-probably not.” Done with the conversation you left the bedroom, angry that this was how the day -a day that was supposed to be fun and a distraction from the shit Mike deals with- started in a fiery blaze.
“Don’t-” Not bothering to hear his response as you fled through the townhouse, you let the door slam closed behind you.
𝐣. 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 – 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | worked on this instead of sleeping but it might be one of my favorite things i've ever written. very overwhelmed by this man and how self-destructive i feel like he can be. warning(s) include: language, fluff, angst, smut, very little dialogue, penetrative sex (mentioned, m + f), handjob (mentioned), bodily fluids, jack being back (whatever that means), attending/resident relationship, fwb vibes, also there's fluffy parts, i swear.
The room stinks of sex–of lingering musks and a slowly-dampening heat that serve as memorials to another night spent losing yourself in the surprisingly tender hands of Jack Abbott. A pulse between your legs, also a reminder. The heat there has far from subsided, lingering and still dancing itself through your veins.
You feel nice. The window on the far side of your room is cracked to stop the smoke from your cigarette you’d finished a few minutes ago from persisting for too long. Sounds from the city flutter in just under the floating chords of Nude by Radiohead.
In Rainbows, track three. Jack fucked you, face to face, the night he learned you knew every word of the song by heart. Then hummed the first verse with you while you rode him to his own peak.
Jack sits against your headboard, sheets hanging at his waist to shield his softening cock from the air of the night. His face is the better version of an already faultless story in this low lighting, the edges of his jaw and cheeks promising something dangerous.
You’ve chosen to rest on a pillow instead of Jack’s thigh, but lay halfway on your side to face the man. Makes it easier to stare at him as you fall asleep. He doesn’t let you get far, fingers of one hand coiling with yours as you play with the digits that started the night feeding you the fruit he bought three days ago. The old lady at the berry stand think ‘m cute, and always gives me extra Jack explained after turning up at your place with an extra carton of some of the sweetest tasting produce you’ve ever consumed.
You smile to yourself, thinking. He fed them to you. The scowling, rugged, sarcastic attending had fed his fourth year resident strawberries.
Jack squints at you, ignoring how his own mouth wants to twitch upwards. “What’re you grinning about?”
You shake your head. He accepts your answer with a rolling of his eyes, untangling his fingers from your and running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip before you get a chance to pout at the loss.
He’s been like this a lot recently–softer, warmer. Eyes overcast with… fondness? The hands that used to yank you into him tug at your body, now. Dragging and trailing at your skin like he’s memorizing the map of your body for when you aren’t near. You’ve wholly accepted the change, letting his grip linger and kisses lengthen into something that burns up your insides.
Grabbing his hand, you snuggle it to your face and close your eyes. He watches you with a still stare, waiting until your breaths even to let his eyes shine with silent tears. His mouth quivers as he makes sure to keep his sniffles quiet, rolling his head with a sigh.
He feels good. Too good, and it didn’t take more than three of his weekends off to get there. Hiding it used to be easy, swearing to himself that the reason you make his chest tremble is because of that trick you do with your tongue. Because of how snugly he fits inside you and how cockdrunk you get. Because of how pretty you beg when he makes you stretch your pussy out with your own fingers instead of his.
Those were the reasons he masked himself with. Forcing himself to go blind at how you snore even though you say you don’t, and wouldn’t look him in the eye after seeing the tiny spots of dry drool you left on his shirt despite his promises that it was alright. Ignoring how he ached through the seven days of shifts, doing his best to treat you like he hasn’t been balls deep inside you every weekend for the past year. Stuffing aside how he thinks of you even when you’re not around, how he almost mumbled I love you into your mouth as you jerked him to a lengthy completion across your stomach a month ago.
Jack’s fucked, and he knows it. He knew it when he woke up seven Tuesdays ago and reached out for you. It took him an embarrassing seven seconds to remember he wasn’t in your room, that you weren’t there. It takes him longer to realize how chilly he keeps his place.
That’s another thing about you, you’re always so damn warm. With patients and him, and so is your room.
He’ll miss that. It’ll take him a while to get over it, too. He’ll snap at residents and smile less but he’ll get over you. He has to. Regardless of how many tears he lets fall tonight as he thinks of the look on your face when you wake up not find him not in your kitchen making Saturday morning coffee but gone. Not letting you see him until the following Monday, and making sure to add a little edge to his voice when speaking to you.
No jokes. No touches. No winks from across the room. And no more weekends.
Wiping his face, Jack sucks in a deep breath and dips his head to look at you. A sad smile warps his face at the drool already leaking out onto your pillow.
Too wired to sleep, he spends an hour listening to your snores and studying your face with watery eyes before slipping his hand from your grasp with a sniffle. The man freezes when you shuffle, holding his breath until you nuzzle into the pillow. He finds his clothes after a few seconds of searching, hoping the quiet music still playing from your looped playlist is enough to cover the clinking of his belt and shuffling fabric.
Jack’s halfway out of your room when his body forces him to pause. It’d be so easy to give in. To concede, and peel off the clothes so he could slip back into bed with you. You’re always so tired after he fucks you, all you’d do is whine and tug him closer before returning to your sleep. LHugging him into you even though he always complains about waking up sweaty.
He stands in the doorway of your room for a long two minutes before turning to face you. Tipping to the bed with long strides, Jack swallows.
You wake six hours later. Music stopped, and Jack long gone.
© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚
While I agree that Robby is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I would also like to point out Kiara (the social worker) has had to deal with
- a teen with a ‘girls to eliminate’ list disappearing from the hospital
- calling CPS on parents after their child ingested THC
- supporting siblings who had to pull the plug on their father
- supporting parents after their son died of an overdose
- handling a possible human/sex trafficking case
- helping the ‘Kraken’ after he woke up
- supporting a family when their daughter died from drowning
- having to identify the deceased shooting victims and tell the families
in the same day as everyone else. A lot of horrible no good day to go around.
Your overprotective boyfriend Dr. Jack Abbott
Jack Abbott doesn’t realize he’s being overprotective at first. To him, it’s just instinct. He watches the exits of every restaurant you go to, always makes you walk on the inside of the sidewalk, and checks the locks on your apartment windows like it’s second nature. It’s not possessive—it’s protective. Quiet, calculated, and constant.
You notice it the most at night. He can’t sleep unless he knows you're home safe. If you’re working late or out with friends, he doesn't bombard you with texts, but you can always feel his eyes flick to his phone every five minutes until you send the “home safe” message.
If you work at the hospital too, he starts doing "casual" walkthroughs of your department, even when he’s not scheduled there. He’ll pretend it’s coincidence, but his eyes scan you like he’s checking for bruises no one else would notice. If you're in a dangerous case or with a combative patient, he’s there fast—and no one questions it. No one dares.
His paranoia peaks when something triggers him—like an overhead page that sounds too much like a siren, or a security breach. He pulls you aside, jaw tight, eyes distant like he’s somewhere else entirely. You have to remind him gently that you’re okay, that it’s not the field anymore.
But he never fully believes it. Not when it comes to you.
His overprotectiveness shows in small moments too—putting his hand on the small of your back in crowds, crossing to your side when a stranger gets too close, instinctively stepping in front of you during arguments, even if you’re the one doing the yelling.
He keeps a go-bag in his trunk. You find it once—fully packed. “Old habits,” he says. But there’s a second toothbrush. And your allergy meds. And your favorite protein bar.
When you ask about it, he just shrugs. “If something ever happens, I’m getting you out first.”
Jack doesn’t say “I love you” often, but his body does. In the tension of his shoulders every time you leave the room. In the way he memorizes your routes home. In the near-invisible tremor of his hand when he cups your cheek after a hard shift—like he still can’t believe you’re here, and safe, and his.
And every now and then, when the walls come down, he’ll whisper it like a prayer against your skin: “I couldn’t protect everyone back then. But I’ll protect you. Always.”





